Ghosts and Machines
by Qoheleth
Summary: In which a glimpse by Counselor Troi of a junior science officer's mind sets in motion a startling series of events, forcing the crew of the Enterprise to reassess their ideas about the mind, the heart, and Lieutenant Commander Data.
1. Cor Meum Conturbatum Est

**Disclaimer:** If _Star Trek_ is anyone's personal property, that one is not I.

* * *

 _Tsi-i-ou-ou!_

"Come," said Captain Picard, laying down his book with a sense of apprehension. He never looked forward to this sort of interview; though Counselor Troi's empathic powers had proven their usefulness twenty times over, there was still that in Picard that rebelled against putting a Starfleet officer on the spot for having an inappropriate emotion. Still, if the emotion had really meant what it seemed to, the matter clearly had to be dealt with.

The doors of his quarters slid open, and a slender young African woman in the uniform of a junior science officer stepped inside. "You wished to see me, sir?" she said.

Her tone was one of ready, disciplined obedience, yet beneath it lay an unmistakable note of awe that she should have attracted the attention of such a one. It was a good first impression, and Picard smiled. "Yes, Ensign Mwaba," he said. "Take a seat."

Ensign Mwaba (her first name was Claudia, Picard recalled) did so, and the Captain took the opportunity to study her more closely. Plain face, sturdy build; sharp, inquisitive eyes; a quiet, gentle manner overall, though perhaps with a hint of unusual determination about the mouth – all in all, quite a typical specimen of the _Enterprise_ 's science crew. The only unusual detail was the small indentation at her chest, suggesting something concealed beneath her uniform – a locket or medallion of some kind, no doubt.

Having processed all this, Picard leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Ensign," he said, "you were on the bridge yesterday at 1340 hours, I believe."

"Yes, sir," said Mwaba. "Mr. Data requested that Ensign T'Plee and I be present at the spectral analysis of Chi-Rho Tauri VI; he regarded it as relevant to our training."

"Just so," said Picard. "And, during that process, Commander Riker returned from his away mission on Chi-Rho Tauri V and requested to speak with me privately; the two of us left the bridge, command of which therefore devolved to Lieutenant Commander Data."

Mwaba nodded.

"Well," said Picard, taking a deep breath, "at 0825 hours this morning, Counselor Troi reported to me in her capacity as ship's morale officer. According to her, at the moment when Mr. Data assumed command of the bridge, she felt a peculiar emotional twinge – her word – from your mind. The impression she was left with was that, for some reason unclear to her, you felt hesitant about Mr. Data's suitability to command the _Enterprise_."

As he spoke, he watched the young ensign carefully, hoping to find some sign that Deanna had misread her reaction. To his dismay, he found just the opposite; while discipline kept her face itself neutral, Mwaba's eyes betrayed the discomfort of one surprised in an attitude that she wasn't exactly ashamed of, but had no wish to share with strangers. (Picard knew the feeling well; Q, for one, was infuriatingly good at inducing it.)

 _So it's true,_ he thought. _The last such report I should have expected to credit, and it's true after all. Oh, Data, what does this young woman know about you that I don't?_

Aloud, with some difficulty, he said, "You understand, Ensign, that Counselor Troi has my entire confidence. What she perceives in the minds on this ship, I regard to be just as real as what Mr. Data perceived in the atmosphere of Chi-Rho Tauri VI – and, if that reality casts doubt on the command fitness of one of my senior officers, I have no choice but to investigate it thoroughly."

Mwaba swallowed. "I don't think that will be necessary, sir," she said. "I think I know what the Counselor perceived, and I can assure you that it has no bearing on anything that Starfleet would regard as relevant to its decisions."

"That's hardly your judgment to make, Ensign," said Picard sharply.

The look that flickered over Mwaba's face at this rebuke resembled nothing so much as an affectionate puppy scolded by its master. "No, sir," she said. "But what I mean, sir, is that I already know what Starfleet thinks about the matter, and I'm just reluctant in my own mind to accept their conclusions, for… well, for personal reasons."

 _Personal reasons,_ Picard repeated mentally, his heart sinking a few more notches. _We've heard that before, haven't we? The business on the_ Gagarin _, with Commodore Gulvarez – that was "a personal matter", too, by the Andorian girl's lights. Data, Data, Data…_

He could picture the scene to himself all too clearly. His androidal Second Officer, so desirous to experience the human condition; an impressionable young woman under his command, pliant to the call of duty and clearly in awe of the _Enterprise_ legend; a misguided wish to imitate the less savory side of some great human figure (such as had led, once before, to a replicated seven-per-cent solution of cocaine finding its way to Ten-Forward); an assignation after hours in the arboretum, or perhaps even one of the holodecks; and then…

He hadn't meant ill, Picard was sure. Data, unlike his brother, was incapable of active malevolence – but that didn't make him incapable of doing harm. Likewise, the mere fact that he had no emotions himself didn't mean that he couldn't manipulate, wittingly or unwittingly, the emotions of others. Of course this young woman wanted to protect him from the court-martial; he himself almost felt the same.

But that was a luxury he couldn't afford, if he wanted to keep looking his reflection in the eye each morning. He had to be firm; he had to get the facts; then, once he had them, he had to do… well, what he would have to do.

"Ensign," he said (and Mwaba, hearing his tone, quailed ever so slightly into the back of the chair), "in a matter such as this, there are no personal reasons. Mr. Data's command suitability affects everyone on this ship; it affects everyone on every other ship on which he may one day serve; and, insofar as each Starfleet officer's performance reflects upon the Service as a whole, it affects everyone in the galaxy who wears our uniform. I cannot permit so grave a matter to remain seriously in question; therefore," (rising and tugging at his uniform for emphasis), "I order you, as captain of the _Enterprise_ , to tell me why it was that Counselor Troi saw a doubt of it in your mind at 1340 hours yesterday."

There was silence for the space of perhaps three human heartbeats; then Mwaba took a deep breath, and rose to her own feet as well. "Very well, sir," she said. "What the Counselor saw was a religious qualm about accepting subordinacy to one who may not have a rational soul."

* * *

Picard stood stock-still for several moments; then his eyes began to flit about the cabin, as though the artifacts on the shelves, or the viewing window, could help him better withstand the sudden and total change in his thought processes that was evidently called for.

"I… beg your pardon, Ensign?" he said.

"Must I repeat it, sir?" said Mwaba, her tone making it clear that she should very much prefer not to.

Picard shook his head hastily. "No," he said. "No, certainly not. Um… what was it, specifically, that brought you to this point of… questioning?"

"I had occasion, some months ago, to review the records of Mr. Data's hearing," said Mwaba simply. "I admired several points in your defense, sir – especially regarding the irrelevance of Mr. Data's composition to the question of his personhood – but it remains the case that you never addressed, and that Captain Louvois specifically disclaimed, what I must regard as the essential aspect of the matter."

Picard recalled the occasion, and Phillipa's words during her verdict. _"I don't know whether he does… I don't know whether I do."_ Yes, he could see how someone of a religious turn of mind might find that inadequate. And it was natural that Mwaba should be such, hailing as she did from the southern parts of Africa – one of the few regions on Earth where Christianity, in its various forms, still held significant sway.

"Well, then," he said slowly, "if that's all…"

But then he stopped himself; that was the wrong way of looking at it. He was thinking in terms of what he had feared a few minutes before, and of his relief that it wasn't so – but to Mwaba, who (he realized) had never had the other in mind at all, there was nothing trivial in the dilemma she had confessed. In her mind, she was an immortal, an embodied spirit, as different from the rest of Nature as the angels she believed in; the possibility of being required to submit, with the ready docility that the Service required, to a mere machine, would naturally be as grotesque to her as that of the consulship of Incitatus.

Still, the mere fact that she hadn't yet resigned from Starfleet – or even requested a transfer out of Data's specific sphere of authority – suggested that she had, as yet, no reason to definitely believe that Data lacked a soul. Indeed, if she only felt qualms on the subject when he assumed general command of the _Enterprise_ , it was likely enough that she had somehow accepted the arrangement so far as she herself was concerned, and was only distressed by it when other humanoids, who had never specifically chosen to be Data's subordinates, nonetheless found themselves placed under him.

He considered for a moment. "Have you spoken to Mr. Data himself about this?" he said.

Mwaba shook her head, looking surprised that he should have asked. "No, of course not, sir," she said. "It didn't seem appropriate – and, anyway, I didn't like to bring up a subject that was likely to so…" She hesitated, her lips forming what Picard suspected was the Swahili for "distress"; then, after a moment's thought, she substituted, "…unsettle him."

The edges of Picard's lips quirked into a faint smile: so that was why her doubts hadn't led to a transfer request. He'd been right about one thing, at least; it seemed that Data's knack for inspiring affectionate loyalty did indeed extend to this young subordinate of his.

"Well, that's commendable of you, Ensign," he said, "but I believe you ought to, all the same. If an officer's fitness for command is questioned, then, be the grounds what they may, it's only justice to give him a chance to answer them."

It was plain that Mwaba saw the reason in this; it was also plain that she was highly reluctant to act on it. Which was understandable, of course – not only because of her evident liking for Data, but also because Starfleet had not proved, in recent decades, a congenial environment in which to express Christian convictions. Nobody had precisely intended it, but it had become clear that there was a tension between the two loyalties – the conflict of Prime Directive and Great Commission, Picard had heard one chaplain call it – which had made things quite difficult for those select few who wished both to be obedient to the heavenly vision and to boldly go where none had gone before.

"Is that an order, sir?" Mwaba said softly.

A less erudite Captain might have missed the opportunity here. Picard, however, as he heard these words, recalled a certain 20th-Century novel that he had read in his youth, and that he knew to be regarded by the Christians of the former British Empire as one of their heritage's particular treasures. It was a long shot, but it could hardly hurt anything – and, if it had a chance of reassuring Mwaba that he was no enemy of her creed as such, it was certainly worth a try.

"It's your commanding officer's wish," he said, clearly and deliberately. "And that's the best kind of order I know."

His efforts were rewarded. It was startling how different Mwaba's face was when she smiled; the mask of discipline that had hitherto overlain it had given no hint of the luminous quality, the easy grace and the hint of girlish prettiness, that a momentary flash of unconcealed delight could give it. "Yes, sir," she said. "Thank you, sir."

Picard nodded. "That will be all, Ensign," he said.

Mwaba obediently turned and left the cabin, and Picard sat back down and took up his book again, reflecting on the strange convolutions of which the humanoid heart was capable. To believe that God had come to Earth, yet at the same time to long for the stars; to think oneself the crown of creation, yet to sympathize with an artifact of human hands; to profess a single, universally binding system of doctrine, yet to willingly serve an organization bound to pluralism in all things… decidedly, it was a difficult thing to be Ensign Claudia Mwaba.

 _Well,_ he thought, _at any rate I've done what I can for her. The rest, Data will have to do – and, whether he has a soul or no, he certainly has the necessary influence over her to set her mind at rest. On a ship this size, I don't suppose I'll so much as hear her name again._

* * *

He was to remember this thought about a fortnight later, and to wonder greatly that, after so many years' acquaintance, he should have misunderstood his Second Officer so thoroughly.


	2. Quis Est Locus Intelligentiae?

"…so the Captain said I should share my thoughts with you, and give you a chance to address them yourself," Ensign Mwaba finished. "So now you know, sir."

Lieutenant Commander Data cocked his head. "If I were capable of passion, Ensign," he said, "I would say that you had my sympathy. I had no idea that our hieratic relation was causing you such metaphysical distress."

Mwaba laughed – softly, but still indicating (as did the subtly more relaxed posture with which she stood before this officer) that she was at ease with her immediate superior in a way that she had not been with Captain Picard. "I wouldn't say it's quite that bad, sir," she said. "But it is an unresolved issue for me, and those are always uncomfortable."

"So I am told," Data agreed, as who should say that he was informed regarding the mating habits of Rigellian limbik flies.

"I was aware, of course, of your religious affiliation," he went on, after a moment's pause to ensure that a certain anti-carboxyl compound, retrieved from the photosphere of Chi-Rho Tauri VI, was continuing stable. "But, as none of the 736 standard Catholic doctrinal texts in my memory banks contain any strictures against subordinacy to artificial life-forms, I had regarded it as a non-issue. Is there, then, a lacuna in my knowledge?"

"Probably not," said Mwaba. "It's not really a question of definite commands; after all, the Magisterium only pronounces on a thing when it's relevant to a significant portion of the Church, not when one Starfleet ensign is having qualms about it. But that's the problem, you see," she went on, a faint hint of strained hoarseness entering into her voice. "My spiritual authority doesn't claim to have the answer, and my temporal authority won't even acknowledge the question, yet I can't keep it from mattering to me."

Data acknowledged that the difficulty was appreciable. "You have prayed, I suppose, on the matter?" he said.

Mwaba nodded.

"And you have received nothing that you recognize as an answer?"

"Just that I should offer it up and do my duty as best I can." Mwaba sighed. "And look where that got me."

"Such a course of action would indeed fail to meet with Counselor Troi's unqualified approval," Data noted.

"You can say that again."

"Such a course of action would indeed fail to…"

Mwaba cleared her throat. "I didn't mean that literally, sir," she said.

"Oh."

There was a pause, then, which Data exploited to check the anti-carboxyl again. Having confirmed that its deterioration was in no way accelerating, he raised his gaze to his subordinate once more. "May I inquire, Ensign," he said, "on what specific grounds you would consent or decline to acknowledge me as an ensouled being?"

Mwaba heaved a sigh, and her hands, folded behind her back, began clenching and unclenching in what her friends and family would have recognized as a form of nervous finger-play. "That's what makes it difficult," she said. "When someone says, guess what, I've made a sentient humanoid in my workshop, there are only two possibilities. One is that he's confused reality with appearance, and made something that can _do_ everything you expect from a sentient being, but that has no actual self behind it – something that stores information and responds to stimuli as well as a person does, or better, but doesn't really think or will. And of course you would say that's not the case, because you know that you do have a self – but the problem is that, on this theory, that's exactly what you'd be designed to say."

Data cocked his head. "I see," he said. "You fear, then, that I am merely an elaborate deception – an imitation humanoid designed to persuade people that it is real?"

"I…" Mwaba paused, swallowed, and tried again. "Sir, I don't… I…"

She paused again, and gazed wordlessly for a few seconds into her commanding officer's pale, expressionless eyes. Then she took a deep breath, and said, softly but steadily, "Yes, sir. That's what I fear."

Data nodded. "It is logical," he said. "The deceptiveness of appearances is proverbial on all known worlds."

Mwaba made no reply, and Data, after a moment's silence, continued. "You said that there were two possibilities," he said. "What is the other?"

At this, the tension that had been building in Mwaba's demeanor noticeably decreased; she didn't actually begin to smile, but her shoulders visibly relaxed, and the rate of her blinking slowed to almost normal. "Well, that's obvious, isn't it?" she said. "The other possibility is that there really can be artificial intelligence – that God has sworn by His holiness to give a soul to any object with such-and-such manlike qualities, and that Dr. Soong discovered by natural wisdom what those qualities are. After all, if you can be sure that a certain kind of animal will always have a soul, why shouldn't the same be true of a certain kind of machine?"

Data frowned. "That is valid, of course, as a conjecture," he said. "Yet, were I in your position, I should regard the other possibility as far more plausible. By the law of economy, one ought to prefer an explanation that merely extends familiar principles, rather than one that supposes entirely new ones."

Mwaba nodded. "Yes, I suppose that's logical," she said. "But we humans don't always go just by logic, do we?"

At this, a look that might almost have been called wistful came into Data's colorless eyes. "No, Ensign," he said softly. "You do not."

Mwaba pursed her lips, and averted her gaze momentarily. "And anyway," she said, "it isn't really so new a principle. After all, St. John the Baptist said that God could raise up children of Abraham from stones; if it was worth saying, it might also be worth doing. There could be circumstances… a sort of fail-safe, in case humanity as such became unworthy… I don't know. But it _might_ be."

"All things are possible with God, in fact," said Data.

Mwaba glanced back up at him, and now a quiet smile did break through. "Yes, sir," she said.

"Then our objective," Data said musingly, "if we wish to ascertain which of these two possibilities is the case, must be to determine the process by which Dr. Soong made his discovery, and whether it was principally concerned with replicating the accidental or the essential qualities of consciousness during the stage when Lore and I were constructed."

Mwaba considered. "Yes, sir, I suppose that's true," she said. "I don't see how we can do that, though. As I understand it, Noonian Soong did all his most momentous work in near-perfect isolation, to the point where the Federation at large only learned of his success after it inadvertently triggered a planet-wide catastrophe. He left no publications, and I never heard that any journal of his was discovered among the ruins of Omicron Theta – so how could we possibly reconstruct his thought processes adequately?"

"The situation does present us with a challenge," Data agreed. "I can see only two ways to resolve it – neither of which, in the natural order, has a high probability of success. Either a hitherto unknown record of Dr. Soong's thought must somehow be brought to light, or…"

But, at that moment, the ship's alert system began to blare, and Picard's voice reverberated through the engineering bay. " _This is the captain,_ " it said. " _All command officers report to the bridge at once._ "

Instantly, Data's demeanor switched from philosopher to Lieutenant Commander; giving his comm badge a faint tap to indicate orders received, he turned on his heel and strode in the direction of the nearest turbolift. "Take over analysis of the compound, Ensign," he ordered. "We will complete this discussion later."

"Aye, sir," said Mwaba.


	3. Conspector Sæculorum

"I'd say your Taurian friends knew what they were about, Number One," Picard murmured, as he and his First Officer stared out the viewscreen at Chi-Rho Tauri VI.

"They knew more than we did, anyway," Riker agreed. "Maybe more than we do now; I'm actually seeing what they described, and I'm still not sure I believe it."

As Picard smiled, the doors of the turbolift opened behind them, and a familiarly matter-of-fact voice said, "Reporting for duty as ordered, Captain."

The two commanders turned. "Ah, Mr. Data," said Picard. "Just the man. Tell me, as a purely rational being, what do you make of that?" And he gestured with affected nonchalance to the viewscreen.

Data's gaze followed the gesture, and his eyes widened – not with surprise or alarm, of course, but as the eyes of one might who wished to take in more fully an unexpected sight. Which, as all present would have conceded, was entirely reasonable, for the sight that lay athwart the _Enterprise_ 's forward stern was one that no rational creature had any right to expect.

Directly ahead lay the immense blue gas giant that they had come to the X-P Tauri system to study – the one that the natives of the next planet sunward called "The Potentate of Time" (at least, that appeared to be what "Yafu-derymo" had originally meant), and early human explorers had nicknamed "Glumdalclitch" in recognition of its status as the largest non-luminous body in the known galaxy. But it could not claim that title anymore – for Chi-Rho Tauri VI, at that moment, was glowing like the Archer Monument on Federation Day. It was as though the light of every star in the universe – or perhaps of all universes – was gleaming simultaneously through its viscous azure clouds.

And moving through those clouds, bathed in that light, was a scene that dizzied the mind. Before the eyes of the _Enterprise_ 's crew, the entire history of the universe was replaying itself at hyper-accelerated speeds: the Big Bang, the coalescence of the nebulae and the stars, the emergence of the galactic energy barriers, the rise of life and of consciousness, all zipped past in a matter of seconds, to be followed by a series of indescribable images that could only be interpreted as unknown milestones in the future destiny of the cosmos. Then these faded in turn, and the final decline of Nature was enacted; all light sources failed, the higher configurations of matter collapsed and crumbled, and the cosmos subsided into its ultimate heat-death – for about three-quarters of a second, at the end of which the scene flickered back into Augustinian time and the great pageant began all over again.

This cycle repeated itself perhaps a dozen times, amid the meditative silence of its observers on the _Enterprise_ , before the turbolift doors whooshed open again and Geordi LaForge arrived on the bridge. "Whoa," he said as he caught sight – so to speak – of the spectacle on display. "What's gotten into Glumdalclitch?"

Data shook his head. "I do not know, Geordi," he said. "I have no prior acquaintance with any such phenomenon. I should presume that the planet is experiencing some form of temporal distortion; beyond that, it would be improper, in the absence of any further information, to speculate."

"Would you accept a local legend as 'further information'?" Riker inquired.

Data cocked his head. "Perhaps, Commander," he said. "Even if the legend itself is imperfectly accurate, the fact of its existence might well prove illuminating."

"Try this one on for size, then," said Riker. "According to the natives of Chi-Rho Tauri V, there's a winnowing period in the heavens every 307 local years, when Yafuderymo summons to his presence all gods, all stars, and all the hosts of heaven. He opens the Book of Fate before them, and shows them all that ever was or ever shall be; then he demands an oath from them that they will honor the plan of Nature, and obey the laws of justice and right dealing. Those who refuse are cast out of the sky, and their names are struck from the agate column in Yafuderymo's palace that lists the celestial nobility. And we, according to the Taurian High Council member I spoke with yesterday, happened to show up just when the next winnowing was scheduled to begin."

Wesley Crusher turned in his seat at the helm, and raised a puzzled face toward Riker. "All the gods are summoned this way each time, sir?" he said.

"That's what Councilor Matka said," Riker replied.

"But why would the same god have to take the oath more than once?" said Wesley. "Gods are immortal, aren't they? If they swore at the first winnowing, what would Yafuderymo need them to swear again for?"

Riker shrugged. "I didn't ask," he said, "and Matka didn't say. He was busy warning me about the danger we would be in if we stayed in orbit about Glumdalclitch; apparently there's a myth about someone eavesdropping on the winnowing, and Yafuderymo catching him and swallowing him whole." He made a face. "Charming people, the Taurians. But the point is, evidently they've seen this before, which means it must be some kind of periodic phenomenon." He glanced at his android shipmate. "That suggest anything to you, Mr. Data?"

Data stared out the viewscreen, his face a vacantly meditative mask, and every humanoid present knew that correlations were clicking by the thousand behind his synthetic forehead. "Taken in conjunction with yesterday's spectral analysis of the planet," he replied slowly, "as well as with the long-standing riddle of Chi-Rho Tauri VI's failure to ignite into a brown dwarf… yes, Commander, I believe it does. It is possible that the planet's core is composed of an array of elements that is capable, when exposed to the proper conditions, of forming a localized four-dimensional singularity."

"A time vortex?" said Deanna Troi.

"Precisely, Counselor," said Data. "Such a singularity would involve the projection into the broader space-time continuum of a quantity of energy corresponding, almost precisely, to the absolute temperature of Chi-Rho Tauri VI as measured this morning. It may be that such events are triggered precisely by the planet's attainment of this temperature; the energy being drained off, the planet is then left at a temperature not far from absolute zero, and spends the next 207 Taurian years being rewarmed to this point."

"Of course!" Geordi exclaimed. "And then after 207 years it discharges again, and the cycle repeats – which is why it's never managed to ignite. And so what we're seeing in the planet's atmosphere is a sort of byproduct of the time distortion: as the energy siphons off into four-dimensional space, it reflects an image of the universe as seen from the outside – a kind of snapshot of eternity." He whipped his head in Picard's direction. "Captain, we need to get a better magnification on the planet. A high-resolution image of something like that – it could give us a whole new perspective on… well, _everything_."

Picard nodded, and turned to the helmsman's chair. "Increase magnification, Ensign," he said. "100 times."

Wesley promptly tapped in the command, and the image on the viewscreen flickered – to reveal exactly the same image as before. He frowned and repeated the command, only to get a repetition of the result.

"No response, sir," he said.

"I can see that," said Picard irritably. "Why not?"

Wesley shrugged helplessly. "No idea, sir."

"If I may, Captain," Data volunteered, "it is possible that the space-time distortions are interfering with the local diffraction of light. In which case, ordinary magnification is out of the question, and the only way to increase the resolution of the image would be to physically approach the planet."

Riker jerked his head up. "Did I hear you correctly, Mr. Data?" he said. "You're advising that we get _closer_ to Chi-Rho Tauri VI while it's playing cat's-cradle with the fabric of reality?"

"No, Commander," Data replied. "I am advising nothing. I merely stated a plausible fact."

All eyes turned to Picard, who stared grimly at the all-too-small viewscreen image of the scientific Sangraal outside. Silence reigned for fully half a minute; then curiosity triumphed over prudence, and Picard gave the order. "Take us in, Ensign. Nice and slow."

"Aye, sir," said Wesley, and touched his console again. There was a faint shudder through the floor as the ship's impulse thrusters were activated, and the _Enterprise_ slowly crept nearer to Chi-Rho Tauri VI. Ever so slowly, the planet's image on her viewscreen began to grow, and her officers strained their eyes (or, in Geordi's case, dialed up his VISOR) to make out any small detail of the cosmic shadow play that danced back and forth across its clouds.

One, however, of these officers was slightly less overcome than the others by the wonder of the occasion, and declined to suppress his native Klingon wariness so far as to neglect the view from his visual periphery. It was Worf, as a result, who noticed the first sign of trouble. "Captain!" he said. "The satellite!"

Picard's gaze, and half a dozen others, turned abruptly rightward, toward the small selenoid that Starfleet knew as Chi-Rho Tauri VI( _a_ ), or, less formally, Reldresal. Ever since Chi-Rho Tauri VI had been discovered, it had been one of its minor enigmas that this captured asteroid should be its only major satellite – but that enigma, like so many others, seemed to be clearing up today. For Reldresal was tilting on its axis, its north pole steadily leaning further and further out of the galactic perpendicular, and its orbital motion was visibly slowing down – and then, even as the _Enterprise_ officers watched, it suddenly broke orbit entirely, and tumbled pole over pole down the great gas giant's gravity well. When it entered the outermost cloud layer, there was a momentary ripple in the cyclic parade of eons, as on the surface of a pond when a rock is thrown into it; then, a moment later, there was nothing – and, for all that the humanoid eye could see, there might never have been.

"What the hell was that?" said Riker softly.

Data frowned. "The vortex phenomenon must have the side effect of dramatically increasing the local curvature of space," he said. "In effect, the planet is rapidly becoming an immense black hole. Captain, I do not recommend…"

"No, I should hope not," Picard snapped. "Ensign! Get us out of here; maximum…"

But, even as he spoke, the bridge of the ship shuddered beneath him, and began to tilt sickeningly forward. Wesley frantically punched at his console, trying to find some counter-action to the force of the planet's pull, but the expression on his face showed quite plainly that he was fighting a losing battle – that, within minutes, the _Enterprise_ would be following Chi-Rho Tauri VI(a) into the great beyond.

It was then that Jean-Luc Picard showed what he was made of. Few men, even among the ranks of Starfleet's captains, would have failed to conclude in such a case that they were facing certain doom, and to respond with stoic acceptance or heroic defiance, according to choice. It was Picard's great glory that, in the crucial split-second, he kept his head sufficiently to remember Data's earlier remarks about projection into the space-time continuum, and to reflect that, if this applied to the matter the planet was absorbing as well as to its own heat energy, there was just a chance that the _Enterprise_ might yet live to see another day. In which case, there was some possible utility in keeping its crew and furnishings from being unnecessarily battered in the meantime.

He jabbed a button on the arm of his chair. "Red alert!" he declared. "All hands prepare for free fall!" And he gestured sharply to his chief engineer.

Geordi, comprehending, turned and scrambled for the engineering console. As the bridge was already badly aslant, this was more of a challenge than it would ordinarily have been, but he nonetheless managed to get his hands on the proper controls and punch in the proper commands. "Gravitators deactivated, Captain," he said – somewhat unnecessarily, as the sudden upward drift of his body, and those of all other persons and loose objects on the bridge, made it abundantly clear that the ship was no longer generating a special field to align her internal _up_ and _down_ with the galactic north and south.

Nor was it a moment too soon – for, the next instant, the _Enterprise_ broke orbit just as the natural satellite had, and hurtled star-drive over saucer toward Chi-Rho Tauri VI. For the few seconds that her bridge crew remained conscious, it was a surreal experience: to drift nearly motionless within their own reference frame, and yet to see the spacescape outside whirl dizzily past on the viewscreen, as though it were the universe, and not their ship, that was spiraling toward an undreamt-of doom.

But what left the greatest impression on all their minds were the repeated glimpses of Chi-Rho Tauri VI, as the _Enterprise_ 's prow swept past it again and again. Increasing each instant in size, still playing and replaying its image of the universal drama, the monstrous planet displayed itself to them more vividly than anyone, a few minutes before, had imagined or desired – and, even in that extremity, there was enough of the star-called voyager in each of their hearts to be glad that it was so.

"It's beautiful," Troi whispered.

 _Indeed,_ Picard thought.

Then the ship plunged through the timeless clouds, and all thoughts and whispers ceased.


End file.
